


All I Want for Christmas is You

by essexgrl68



Category: Blur (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28270287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essexgrl68/pseuds/essexgrl68
Summary: (Extended Overly Romantic  Drabble with Mariah Carey Title Because it’s Fucking Covid Christmas and Anything Goes)  Current and historic gramon that's overtly sappy because of the season and because I'm feeling overly sentimental this year.  This just splurged out last night after Graham tweeted that his internet was down. There's always good reason to write about those beads.   I dearly hope that everyone is safe and has a reasonably happy holiday, whatever you celebrate.  And that 2021 brings good health and much more time with our loved ones.  Thank you for reading.  Take care of yourselves and each other.  I'd like to dedicate this impetuous story to my dear friend roomeight, who has inspired me to keep writing.
Relationships: Damon Albarn/Graham Coxon
Comments: 13
Kudos: 19





	All I Want for Christmas is You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roomeight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roomeight/gifts).



December 23 2020, Muswell Hill, London

Graham set the mug of tea next to his computer console and sighed. The strings of twinkle lights were pretty, he thought, reflected in the sheen of the various guitars stacked carefully in their cradles along the wall under the window. At least the electricity was still on. The bloody internet wasn’t. Heavy rain streaked the skylight. The upstairs studio was, at the moment, more a refuge from the bustle of home life below than a place of work. As much as he was happy to be home, the prospect of a few months of tier four was daunting. And Christmastide, at least since adulthood, had always made him prickly and slightly uncomfortable.

He startled when the studio phone rang. Hardly anyone knew the number up here and he couldn’t imagine business colleagues would be calling during the lead up to Christmas. He glanced at the digital display as he leaned to pick up the call. Ah. A Devon exchange. He realized suddenly what day it was. Unconsciously, his gaze went to the pottery cup on the shelf above his desk. His voice was soft when he answered. “Dames?” That rich chuckle came down the line. “Hello, love.” 

November 1992, London

“Christmas fan club single. Like the Beatles.” Dave Balfe regarded the baleful faces of his charges, all slightly hungover, only mildly bemused by the reference to the Fab Four. “I’ll even let you pick which song.” Alex let out a barking laugh. “Can we fuck with them, like the Beatles did? “Good King Pinchyerarse.”” Balfe scowled at him. “Maybe when you’ve achieved something closer to their reputation. For now, just keep it nice for the fans.” 

Damon, having chewed over the idea and found it not entirely unpleasant, shot a glance and grin at Graham. “Gra. Pick one. Mr. Hildreth gave us a decent repertoire.” Their eyes met warmly, both recalling choir days at Stanway. Dave smiled. Alex rolled his eyes. Ten minutes later, both of them were getting a lesson on the harmonies of The Wassailing Song. 

Mid-December 1985, Colchester

Hazel Albarn stood at the back of the small multi-purpose room at the old folks home, watching with obvious pride and affection as the neatly dressed young people of the Stanway Comprehensive School Senior Choir filed into place on the risers in front of their rapt audience. The room was decorated with red and green paper garland and a heavily tinselled tree glittered in the corner. The refreshment table with its urns of tea and platters of shortbread and mince tarts waited at the side of the room. There were times, Hazel thought, when the strife of the year fell away, when the simple, homely, kind traditions didn’t seem hackneyed, but only heartwarming. She was glad her boy had chosen to take part in the choir. She knew one reason for his participation was the young music director who stood before his students and waited patiently for their attention before he cued the dark-haired boy to step forward. She knew the other reason was this particular soloist, who had been chosen for his ability to still hit the soprano notes that began this favourite carol. Hazel knew he was nervous; she also knew he’d been practicing faithfully, because quite a bit of that practice had happened in her front room, with Damon accompanying them on piano. Graham’s eyes were huge and trained totally on Mr. Hildreth. He took a breath and his clear, sweet voice filled the small room. “Once in royal David’s city, stood a lowly cattle shed…” 

Hazel glanced past him to where her boy, slightly behind the tenor section with the rest of the baritones, craned forward as much as he could without being too obvious about it. He was beaming, his blue eyes dancing, head nodding slightly along with the melody, the pride shining from his face. Hazel had suspected for a while. Now she knew for sure.

Later that night, she sought and found, in an unopened packing crate, a wooden box that had travelled with them from Leytonstone but hadn’t been thought of for a while. She lifted the lid and sifted through the glass beads that glimmered inside. She’d leave them on the kitchen counter. If her instincts were right, and they always were, Damon would know what to do with them. 

2020

“You called on the land line?” Graham ran his hand through his hair, preening for Damon even though he was invisible, down an ancient phone line. A chortle. “Heard your internet was out. Missy stalks your Twitter.” 

“Raining there too?” Graham stretched out on the couch, watching the drops flood down the glass above him. It wasn’t idle weather talk out of shyness, simply the natural course of conversation for two British people. Damon snorted. “Pissing down. What else could we expect, for Christmas this year?” Graham could hear him take a gulp of something, and reading his mind, Damon assured him. “Tea, Gra.” 

“Yeah, me too... I’m glad, Day. I’ve been worried. This year has been shite. I’m happy you’ve been busy.” Damon laughed heartily now. “You heard the story about me bashing my head on the wall like the whole world did. Can’t keep my mouth shut. I promise, love. I won’t do it again.” He sighed. There was a brief silence. “I miss you like mad.” 

Graham felt his throat swell and shook his head to try to stop the sudden rush of emotion, tears prickling at his eyes. “Me, too. You. I know what day this is.” 

Damon didn’t try to quell the tremor in his voice when he spoke. “This hurts. For once we’re in the same bloody country and we can’t see each other. Especially today.” He paused. “We had snow then, remember?” 

Graham smiled and answered gently. “As if I would ever forget.”

December 23 1985, Trestle Bridge, Colchester

Damon reached out his hand to help Graham up onto the concrete abutment under the train trestle. Twilight had long fallen and the sky was clear, but there was a chilly dampness in the air that foretold probable rain later. The boys had ridden their bicycles to the edge of the brush around the bridge, and walked from there to Damon’s perch. He loved the trains, loved the superstition that if one passed overhead it was good luck. Maybe it was his own superstition, crafted to have an excuse to head out with Graham, to take a break from the stifling family obligations of this time of year and see his best friend. They sat huddled together against the cold, wool beanies pulled down over their ears, their breath visible, ghostly in front of them, as it was still, with not even a bit of a breeze. 

Graham knew the drill. They sat silently until Damon shifted, perked up, as the faintest of tremors from the beams next to them signalled the coming arrival of the 5:14 from Euston. Graham adjusted the scarf at his neck and drew his legs up closer to him, shivering slightly. Without hesitation, Damon wrapped his arm around his friend and let the boy tuck his head into his neck. “Too cold? We can go.” Graham smiled, his face hidden against the warmth of Damon’s coat, Damon’s body. Damon was always warm. Damon always protected him. “Nah, I’m fine. Let’s wait for your train.” 

There was always a moment just before the great engine and cars thundered over them when the girders shook as if they would crash upon them, and the rush of adrenaline and anticipation made Damon whoop in delight. He pulled Graham closer as the train rumbled over and past them. “Yay! Good luck for Christmas. Good luck for the New Year.” He peered out into the darkness beyond their shelter. “Gra. Look. Christmas snow.”

Clouds had made the sky a creamy pale pink, reflecting the nearby town lights, and sure enough, drifting lazily in the still air, beautiful in their rarity this far south, snowflakes floated dreamily down towards them, melting into the bushes around the bridge. Damon felt in his coat pocket, let his fingers glide over the cool slippery beads before he drew his hand out. He looked away from the mesmerizing snowflakes and watched his friend watch them fall. The wide dark eyes, the perfect lips, the graceful brows. He had no embarrassment at his study; he’d caught Graham doing the same to him, many times. “Graham.” The boy turned to him. “Merry Christmas, Gra.” He slipped the necklace into his hand. Graham held the beads gently, rolled their cool smoothness between his fingers. “Oh! Damon. It’s lovely. It’s like yours.” His eyes were soft and warm. “Did you make this for me?” Damon nodded. “Hazel still had her collection of beads. Will you… will you wear it?” 

Graham had no hesitation in his gesture, either. He nodded. He leaned to his friend, their breath mingled. Gently, tenderly, avidly, he pressed his lips to Damon’s. They kissed. They kissed again. The snow fell. 

December 23, 2020 London/Devon

Graham stretched upwards to the shelf, carefully grasped the cup, gently shook it and watched the beads tumble together. “Your mum and dad - are they with you?” 

“Course they are,” came the response. “All of us, Gra. It’s a crowded house.” 

Graham giggled. “We used to love Crowded House, Damon.” He waited a beat and wasn’t disappointed as the delighted guffaw came down the line. “Yes, we did....fuck, I miss you.” 

“I miss you more.” Graham felt the tears threaten again. “Say happy Christmas to your parents, Dames. To all of you.” 

“I will. And to your bunch.” He paused. “I’m not wishing you happy New Year. I’ll call you after the weekend, Gra.” Graham could hear the beloved voice get husky as Damon spoke again. “Text me when you’ve got some time alone. I’ll call on my cell. From the barn.” 

This many years later, Graham felt the same shiver of delight that he had had all those years ago. “I will. I love you, Damon.” 

“Darling, I love you more.”


End file.
